Virility
by Hikari no Chibi
Summary: Ives has grown weary through decades of endless wars, but Ms. Gold leaves him feeling quite peckish. Let's not pretend this is anything less than shameless Ivelle smut. Warnings: Cannibalism, wild abuse of history. My OUAT friends should probably watch Ravenous first.
1. Chapter 1

_So apparently I hate myself and everyone else. This story comes with STRONG WARNINGS. Colonel Ives is a manipulative cannibal from the 1840s who conspires to live forever by feasting on human flesh. Belle is a young widow about 5-years outside of the Storybrooke curse, flavored with a dash of residual magic, and they're totally going to have sex. Seriously, don't read this if you're put-off by anything squicky.  
_

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

"Allow me, ma'am."

Belle looked up to see a face she'd come to fear over the last several months of living in California. He wore a goatee and his hair hung a little shorter, but this recurring stranger who always flashed her a smile and held doors politely was wearing a borrowed face. Only one set of eyes had ever set her afire like this man – those were her husband's eyes.

As he handed her the book she'd been stretching to reach on the library's top shelf, Belle found herself compelled to speak. Under normal circumstances, she found it difficult not to sprint away from the man at full speed, but he was being polite – she had to thank him, whatever her feelings about his stolen face.

"Thank you, Mr..."

"Colonel, actually. Colonel Francis Ives."

"Well thank you very much, Colonel Ives."

He reached out for her hand, and she gave it to him out of habit. Belle was more than a little surprised when he pressed his lips chastely to her knuckles. "The pleasure is all mine, Miss..."

"Missus," she supplied. "Mrs. Belle Gold."

"Ah, and will we be meeting the fortunate Mr. Gold this afternoon?" he asked, looking around at the mostly deserted library. They both visited the remote history section regularly, always passing but not speaking; he knew she came here alone.

"No, I'm afraid not. He.. he died. About 5 years ago, actually."

"That is a shame, to see a lovely lady like yourself widowed so young. Of course, there was a time when these things were a bit more commonplace; cherish the days you got."

"We made the most of our time," she said, smiling. Manners, courtesy in general, were not something that this world outside of Storybrooke had in abundance. She could ignore his stunning similarities to her late husband for a little bit of civilized conversation.

"Ms. Gold, I beg your pardon if this is too bold, but would you be so kind as to indulge an old war horse with a little more of your company this afternoon? I'm positively ravenous, and I'd like nothing more than to have you along for lunch."

**Fort Spencer, 1847**

When General Slauson discovered him in the bear trap, he'd already gnawed off half of Boyd's face. The death rattle was a stroke of brilliance, a lovely spot of theatre. His impression was spot on – as it should be – he'd heard enough of them recently. But in truth, he really hadn't been sure that the other man would pass out – lose his will to fight – before the blood loss and trauma finally stilled his own body as well.

He did know, though, that Boyd would continue fighting for as long as he thought Ives was alive. So, he rolled the dice. His gambit paid off, and somehow Boyd resisted the urge to consume Ives' own face – a calculated risk that could have backfired horribly.

"Colonel Ives, I presume?"

He thought it was all over then. And why wouldn't it be? Here he was, with another man's face in his maw, and completely pinned by a pair of rusty metal jaws with the army bearing down on him.

"General Slauson," Ives replied warmly, using his most cordial voice. He knew he had hair and blood caked all over his face, but he flashed his most debonair smile anyway.

"I've heard reports from this godforsaken hell-hole that would curl your teeth, Ives. Mad things. Savage things. It looks like you boys had a regular ole blood bath in the yard. And here you are, chewin' like dog on a dead man's face. Y'know what the army's policy is on this, Ives? When you're facing down a bear trap full of crazy, feral animal, you shoot the animal. You shoot it right between the eyes.

But I'm not going to do that, Colonel. And let me tell you why – I just ate a bowl of rather interesting stew in your mess hall. Cleared up my arthritis, Ives. I aint got a sore bone in my body. Now, I'm going to spring that trap and let you up. You're going to wash up, and we are going to have us a little talk. See if you don't just have a few interesting things to tell me about that stew I ate."

"It'd be my pleasure, General."

**Sonoma County, CA **

To his surprise, Ives was actually taking the pretty little widow out to lunch. He hadn't expected her to say yes, usually she had the good sense to avoid him like the plague. Still, he noticed her. She read, nonfiction mostly, and she always wore a demure little sun dress that hearkened back to his frontier days. The Good Old Days, he called them.

Back then, a man could find no shortage of unwashed miners, lonely settlers or dying soldiers to eat. Everyone tasted like adventure and vigor, because everyone worked hard to simply go-on living. For the last 50 years or so, though, times were lean. He had to get by on the dregs of society, or pay off a morgue attendant for spare livers and kidneys.

Money was no object for him or anyone else he and Slauson converted in the early days – not that he'd seen many of the original team since the late 1980s. When you ate every successful gold miner in a 200 mile radius for nearly a decade, it tended to make the cash flow easy.

But this little Ms. Gold of his? She looked like a big old bowl of peaches in cream, and he just knew she would taste sweet. It was a gamble, luring someone so mainstream to her demise. Since they'd learned of DNA and fingerprinting, his lifestyle was far from easy. The first time he saw her, he'd simply gorged himself on leftovers – gristly octogenarian, mixed with a bit of migrant day-laborer – but it helped him to forget nothing. It was not satisfying.

Every week he got a little closer, a little bolder. She seemed skittish, mostly. Run, little doe, run. The mountain lion sees you. And then the doe did something foolish. She lay down in the clearing and accepted the lion's invitation to graze.

Ives knew three things, and he knew them well. He knew hunting, charming and fucking. And wasn't it Ms. Gold's lucky day, she was on a wagon train heading toward all three.

**Gettysburg, PA – 1863**

It was only natural that he and General Slauson's men would rise for the Confederacy. Hell, half of them were from Texas originally. Privates Beaumont and Aberdeen, Sergeant Lopez and Feasting Crow were the last of their recruits left from the Fort Spencer days, and each man carried two sets of uniforms on him at all times – one blue, one gray.

Ives was, as had been decided through trial an error, disguised as a medic. He could talk his way out of anything, it seemed, and it freed up the boys attention so they could eat. Or shoot. Or stab. Whichever struck their fancy. It became clear about 5 years into their little endeavor that none of them were aging; that a bullet wound no longer packed as much punch as they'd once remembered.

The Devil's Den suited them best, though the Orchard was also a fond memory. Wedged into a crag, men falling like flies, the blood flowed like a fine wine. The Windegos ate well that night, and three days later they marched out, down the Emmitsburg Road.

Oh, how he longed for the Good Old Days.

**Sonoma County, CA**

Belle liked spending time with Francis, though she still found it odd that he preferred to be called Colonel. "Colonel" wasn't at all intimate or endearing, not like calling a man by his given name. And, the more they met socially, the more she found that she would very much like his leave to call him Francis. Or even simply Ives.

He was a gentleman, in the old ways of Fairy Tale Land, but with none of Gaston's foolhardy boasting or shallow conversation. At first, she feared she was only projecting her desire to see Rumpelstiltskin onto him, but he seemed genuinely interested in her. And, after the first few dates, she felt herself becoming more interested in him as well.

The man could talk about anything, for hours if he had a willing partner. He spoke of history like a living entity, and recalled details of a bygone era that spoke of decades spent in careful reading.

It was nice, not having to worry about magic or the pesky Blue Fairy. That thought made her feel incredibly guilty, but she couldn't hide away from the world any more. Her Rumpelstiltskin was gone, and she had not elected to return to the Enchanted Forest. That world held nothing for her, so it was up to her to find something of value in this one.

The Colonel... the Colonel was charming. He was kind to her. And she already knew she was attracted to him for his features. The air of danger – it seemed – was once again her real weak point. Every word that man spoke slid over her ears like butter, and she knew a thing or two about men like that.

Men like the Colonel, like her late husband, were always more trouble than they were worth. Then again.. men with silver tongues often proved their mouths useful in a multitude of sinful, delightful, utterly indulgent ways.

Belle couldn't wait to find out.

"Ms. Belle.." He never called her Mrs. Gold any more. "Come have dinner with me at the ranch tonight?"

"I think I'd like that, Colonel."

"And please, I think we've stood on ceremony long enough. Call me Ives. Or even Francis, if you'd like to."

"Then you must call me Belle. Just Belle."

"May I pick you up at the around five, Belle?"

"Five sounds great, Ives. Should I bring anything?"

"Oh no, I insist that you leave it all to me. I can cook up one hell of a supper, if I do say so myself."

**Germany, 1918**

The trenches were hell, unless you were a Windego. For them, the Hundred Days Offense was an all-you-can-eat buffet. They'd all assumed new identities, new names. It wasn't difficult, not really. This time Feasting Crow was their Captain, posing as an Italian, and Aberdeen was playing medic. He'd grown into the role, with age.

Slauson did not enjoy reporting to the half-Comanche, but as long as they had fresh meat he stayed happy.

Only Ives realized the problem that the press presented early enough to intervene. A landmine could barely dent them now. The lot of them could probably dismantle a tank. But the technology, the atrocities the humans had concocted to expedite the business of war... that was not the real issue. The shortwave had been disturbing enough; now, photographs and film seemed like the surest things to expose them. What would they do, in another 50 years, when presented with irrevocable evidence of their involvement in the Great War?

By day 80 of the Offensive, even the feasting began to feel boring. Ives had a lovely little dish waiting for him on the outskirts of Paris, and – though the Windego would never be satiated – he was ready to put aside the eating and killing for a whole month of hard fucking. At the earliest convenience, he planned to pin Marie to a mattress and make her scream his name all night. And probably half the day, too, if she was very well behaved.

Oh yes, the women had changed since The Good Old Days. 70 years could do that, he supposed. And, if Slauson's predictions were anything to go by, they would only continue to change. Shorter dresses.

Shorter hair cuts. Shorter lifetimes.

Ugh. The Germans were giving him heart burn. What he wouldn't do for a side of starch and veg, or a nice cottage stew.

**Sonoma County, CA**

Belle smelled like he remembered rain, before the humans destroyed and acidified everything. Industry – real industry – disgusted him. It's what inspired him to move west. The steady smoke of factories was not at all good for his tuberculosis, and – now that he was not bound for a slow death in a convalescent hospital, was not bound by anything – the stink of manufacturing still haunted his memory.

And she was a lady, the way he remembered them from his youth. She spoke eloquently, and seemed wise beyond her years. She also didn't offer her favors lightly; he couldn't remember the last time his charms hadn't won him a prize in a single night. Ives didn't rightly know if he wanted to bed or bite her first, but he knew that her death, at least, would come swiftly.

Slauson sometimes liked to leave them lingering. Morphine helped, but it made the sex less exciting. Amputate a leg and you can still eat for the night, with a nice spot of sex in the morning. The same could be said for an arm or a flank-steak, though that kind of mutilation no longer aroused him.

Fuck first, then feeding. Definitely.

**Russia, 1942**

Beaumont thought they could stay, if the fighting lasted the winter. Stalingrad was an ambitious goal, but if their German army was turned back they would be flush with frozen bodies for several months in the Russian winters. Maybe pick up a pair of Olgas or Minkas and make a regular party of the thing.

All of them, even Feasting Crow who could barely pass for a Spaniard mercenary, were more than proficient cavalrymen. As officers astride some rather respectable horse flesh, it almost felt like their glory days.

It was almost enough to make a man forget his hunger, for a second. Russia: beautiful country.

So, they stayed. The peasants and the rural villages were absolutely ripe for them by the time the trail of bodies left behind Hitler's armies dried up, and the prison camps in Siberia played like a well-stocked pantry. Sometimes, the countryside even made a fair impression of the Sierra Nevada. It was nostalgia, Slauson reckoned. 100 years of carrion and killing indiscriminately could make an old war horse a little homesick, it seemed.

The years passed pleasantly, food was plentiful, and then one day in 1945 everything changed. They called it the A-bomb, and it leveled entire cities. One of those could surely kill a Windego. But, more importantly, it hearkened the end of their days.

Ives, Slauson and the rest had lived through seemingly infinite upgrades to the art of war. Rifled infantry. Flame throwers. Tanks. Biplanes. With this new monstrosity, not only did the bodies go to waste – the soldiers were rendered obsolete. It caused them to fight, giants cracking bones too hard for a bullet to chip, then healing themselves almost instantly. The bickering lasted for days.

But, of course, Ives convinced them to go back to the United States in the end. He was always the persuasive one, even in his tuberculosis days. They had properties and businesses still earning fair profits in their names; it was time to find a more sustainable way to feed. In another hundred years, the undying soldiers who could conquer anything might be redundant.

**Sonoma County, CA**

Like most wealthy landowners in California with too much spare time, Colonel Ives made his own wine. Belle knew this, because she'd drunk entirely too much of it as they ate their lavish salads and herbed chicken.

When Ives offered to cook, what he really meant was seduce her with cutlery. His hands wielded a chef's knife like a maestro with a paintbrush, and his long, wide hands kept her entranced all night. They talked of anything and everything. He showed her his stables on the drive in, and she'd nearly convinced him to take her out riding one day. Belle hadn't ridden a horse since her princess days, but that wasn't exactly the kind of story she could share with him openly. It was a shame, all the secret keeping. But in her 62 years (28 of which she'd spent locked away in the Storybrooke mental ward), Rumpelstiltskin was still the only person with whom she could be 100% herself.

Ives was nice. He was a gentleman, and he made her think any number of dirty thoughts with his snide, cheeky side. Belle had no intention of returning to her home that night, and decided that it was time she let him know as much. They were seated side-by-side now, enjoying the starlight on an old, wooden porch swing. His arm was wrapped around her waist, and they'd brought another bottle of wine to share between them.

This was it. Belle leaned in, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. He offered up his tongue, gently. When she opened her mouth to reciprocate, he seemed to take his time – indulging in the taste of her lips. Suddenly, his hands grasped her tightly and he pulled her onto his lap as though she weighed nothing.

He was kissing her senseless, trying every corner of her mouth with his hands knotted in her curling, chestnut hair. Ives teeth dragged down her bottom lip, and she could feel him hardening underneath her.

This was not the reserved man who helped her reach high books. This man was different – intoxicating, incessant and utterly invigorating. Her body was flush against his, her hands pulling apart the buttons of his shirt, when he finally pulled away to breathe.

"Belle... God, Bell... what are you?" His eyes were intense and he was licking his lips, hungrily.

**Sonoma County, CA 1968**

In the end, only Ives was able to make the transition back to civilian life. It was almost ironic, that he – the most zealous of all Windegos – had grown tired of the mercenary lifestyle first. Slauson and his men were probably camped out around a rice paddy in Vietnam somewhere, feasting on whatever soldiers were foolish enough to wander off.

He'd had only one measly vagabond this week, and like always – Ives was still hungry. The difference was, no amount of gluttony took the edge off it any more. So, he simply grew used to the pangs. Life, living for a century with unrivaled strength and vigor, came at a steep price. But it was one he would willingly pay, because to go on living through all the changes he'd seen – that was truly an adventure.

There was even an idea floating around in his head, if these Civil Rights nut-jobs and drug-addled kids kept carrying on like they were lately wont to. There were communes popping up all over the place in California these days; he could take in the downtrodden and destitute, and return to a facsimile of the old Fort Spencer days.

If they kept carrying on like this, that might be enough to amuse him for the next couple of decades. So, he bought some land. Then, finding he liked his own space and property, he bought some more. This was the American dream. This was manifest destiny.

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

Belle, his doe in the field, looked him squarely in the eye and transformed herself into a little lioness. "What am I? Tonight... I'm just yours."

His cock was so hard he feared he might bruise her legs. Belle, his Belle. All his, all night. And she tasted like nothing he'd ever imagined. Her mouth was heaven, if a monster like him could dare to dream of such a place. He tasted sunshine and magic, and a time and place that he longed for looked back at him through her face. Whatever Belle was, she was not a human from this planet. Not like one he'd ever tasted before.

He should rip her in half before she had a chance to scream. Tear her open and rub himself in the viscera until he came in a frenzy of delight. But that would be over quickly, her taste would fade... In that moment, he barely had the wherewithal to do anything but kiss her desperately, buck his hips into her and moan.

Belle must not die. Not yet. She was everything his body craved.

Oh, but the pain.. the pain was excruciating. Running his tongue over her neck and breasts, tearing her clothing away... she overwhelmed his senses so easily. Ives was his own worst enemy. Belle gasped and rubbed herself against him every time he used his teeth on her pale, flawless skin. She couldn't know. She couldn't realize that ever nip and suck was another temptation for him to break the surface and drink. He should stop. If he wanted to keep her and not eat her all up in one short-lived feast, he should stop.

Belle added her own teeth to the mix then, and whatever semblance of reason and restraint he'd learned in the last century left him gasping.

"Belle, please..."

Her only reply was a needy moaning, and he took that as his cue to proceed. Ives pulled her down to the wooden deck and tore her panties free. The arousal was rolling off her in waves. He could smell her readiness, and his hands quickly found the slicked bundle of nerves between her legs.

As he rubbed small circles around her most sensitive place, Belle gave up trying to think rationally. Reciprocation could wait. His heat and urgency were catching, and – with very little warning – she came all over his fingers.

Belle pulled him into a languid kiss, gently pushing him into an upright, sitting position. He looked completely in awe, as though he hadn't thought sitting or even breathing were physically possible. Ives was looking back and forth, from her hand to his, somewhat incredulously, and he was entirely happy to give her another soft, slow kiss when she prompted him again.

"What are you?" he begged.

This time, she just kissed him. Then slowly, reverently, he lifted his fingers to his mouth, inhaled her scent slightly, and licked his fingers clean.

"Bedroom. God, Belle... let me take you to the bedroom. Please."

By the time they reached his California King, both of them were breathing heavily. His hands seem to tear through fabric like paper, and in a few seconds both of them were divested of their clothing. His body was firm, with well-defined shoulders. Gold's body looked nearly as good, but Ives was maybe a decade or so younger.

She didn't mean to think of her husband, not really. He'd be a jealous fit if he knew what she was up to, but – in 5 years – Ives was the first man she'd wanted. And it really was him, with his haunting gaze and fierce intelligence. She didn't see Rumpelstiltskin when she looked at him, to her Ives was simply himself.

He kissed her again, and then dropped to his knees in front of her on the bed. Belle was a witch. A shaman. An incubus or a changeling. There was no reasonable explanation for the way she tasted to him. Her mouth had nearly crippled his resolve, yet – with only a gentle pressure – her hands could command him.

And her cum... hgn. He would eat well with her. A Windego could live on blood, but flesh was better. Belle's juices blew them all away. Ives knew then that he couldn't kill her. This sumptuous feast for the senses, this darling little lady who turned monsters into beggars and smelled like fresh rain... if his strength escaped him and he started to hurt her, she would let him know. She would let him know, and what's more – he thought, for her, that he might even be able to stop. To soften his clawing hands and swift thrusting.

But he was getting ahead of himself. She gave him one more supple kiss, and he buried his face between her legs. Nothing had ever, ever tasted so good. Not that first guide on the trail west, nor the Russian princess he'd found exiled in Siberia. His tongue was swift, and she was so sweet.

Belle lost track of how many times he brought her off with his fingers, mouth and teeth. Her hands knotted in his long hair, and his pace never slowed. Somewhere, in her moaning, writhing daze, she realized that she was acting selfishly.

When he felt her tug his hair up her body, he once again had to resist the urge to bite. Yes. Belle who pulled hair and clawed his back was what he needed. She could not go to waste. He licked his way to her breasts, pinching at each nipple between his lips, before nuzzling at her neck.

She kissed him. She kissed him deeply, and he knew that she could taste what he could taste. Whatever small goodness he'd done to deserve her, it had not been done intentionally, but he would thank whatever God she liked if Belle would simply continue to lick his mouth clean. Her saliva mingled with her cum brought a sudden rush to his groin.

He'd been selfish for too long, taking her again and again with his tongue. Now his cock was nearly purple from straining and he knew he would not last long.

Belle surprised him again. She moved him gently onto his back, and he was utterly at her mercy. The Windego, the warrior, the constant solider... for her, he would be a willing slave.

Belle took her time exploring him, thrilled every whimper and guttural groan. She kissed and nipped her way down his body, leaving a small trail of marks in her wake. When she finally arrived at her destination, she swirled her tongue around his tip and took him into her mouth deeply. After a few swift bobs and an accidental nudge from her teeth, Ives spasmed and he relaxed completely.

Belle crawled back up his body, tucking her head under his chin. He'd be ready for her again in a few minutes – one of the perks of being like him was the stamina. The virility. Of course, she didn't know that, so she was simply happy – cuddling.

He kissed her then. Kissed her so that she knew that she was his, and that he had no intentions of letting go.

God yes... she'd swallowed his seed. His own saltiness mingled with her and promised of endless nights to come. The kisses were slow, building. He licked her mouth clean and felt himself hardening again.

His precious Belle had swallowed him completely, and he entered her gently as he continued to kiss her mouth clean. Eternity was his, and he had no intentions of facing it without her. She'd tasted him tonight, willingly. She'd make a spectacular cannibal someday


	2. Chapter 2

_With thanks to Ellynne, who saw tendrils spinning in the night, wrote it down, and got it right._

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

He'd made a mistake, not eating her that first night. It got harder and harder not to bite every time they fucked, but her taste was never as sweet as when she looked up into his eyes with an undeniable trust. It was like having his own personal opiates on tap – addicting, notoriously bad for his health. Still... as he familiarized himself with the particular pleasures and delicacies of Belle's body, he found that she continued to please his discerning palate. No, he wouldn't kill her yet despite all her peculiarities. Ives wanted to keep her around, to sample her again and again. Even if it was a mistake in the end.

As a result, he'd become lazy in his hunting. Just last week, Ives had settled for feigning a heart attack in his own smokehouse to lure in a particularly plump and friendless field hand. After a few days curing, grinding and spicing, they'd enjoyed his sausage and drippings over biscuits for breakfast. Belle was never as hot for him as she was after a feeding.

Of course, those had to happen surreptitiously. He'd learned a hard lesson with Boyd, the first of his kind he'd encountered very near the beginning of everything. You couldn't force a Windego to eat, not if it really didn't want to; and any Windego who didn't eat was a Windego who would someday die.

Unwilling though he was to repeat those mistakes, he knew – one day – that he would have to tell her the truth. In a decade, if she lasted that long, she'd notice that neither of them was aging. And, unless she ate of her own free will – preferably in the depth of winter – she'd end up a half-creature like Boyd. And Boyd... Boyd was regrettable.

No, the lies could not go on indefinitely. The first time Belle nicked herself shaving and the wound instantly sealed itself, she'd know something was amiss. That is, as long as Ives didn't smell the blood – a shark ravenous beyond caring – and chew her to bits first.

Just to spite him, he thought, Belle remained somehow interesting through all of their trysting. Their conversation never lacked, though he was less and less inclined to take his cock out of her mouth long enough for her to get a word in edgewise. The more she sucked him off, the more like him she became, and the more like him she was, the more demanding her sex drive. Did she notice that her own libido had spiked? If she hadn't, then it was just a matter of time.

**Storybrooke, ME – the not too distant past**

"Take the knife... Belle... Live. Promise me." Her husband's death rattle shook her soul.

He'd taken a blast of Regina's most nasty spell, one intended to hit her. There was no Dark One Curse in Storybrooke, per se, but with the return of magic – its unpredictability – some names and objects still held weight. It seemed only natural that his crooked little dagger was one of these. So she took it from his body like he wanted, and when Emma came calling to lock it up in the evidence vault, she almost lied. Almost.

Belle hadn't, prior to losing her husband, counted herself among the Warrior Princesses of Storybrooke. Snow White led rebellions, Red mauled armies... girls like her and Ella were simply looking for a better life. And she'd found one, finally. The hope of one, anyway. It was all right there in Rumpelstiltskin's library. All she needed was to take back the knife.

All Emma had to do was make the happy endings come back, and then the curse would break entirely. But Belle's happy ending was lying dead in the Storybrooke Cemetery... there was no point in waiting around for Emma to find _that._ Some things, even magic couldn't un-do. Belle realized, though, that whatever was left of the Dark One – her husband – was tied to that knife. With it, she thought she might be able to push through the barrier isolating Storybrooke.

So Belle broke into the Sheriff's office and fled in the night – bravely looking forward to her new life. Maybe it wasn't brave, maybe it was cowardly. Then again – she was, after all, the spinning coward's wife.

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

He'd finally allowed himself a solid weekend of hunting, free from temptation. It was hard to pry himself away from Belle, his most delicious treat, especially when she commanded him so thoroughly – had thoughtlessly made him a prisoner to her whims by only the merit of her taste.

Sometimes he resented it, especially when he was hungry. But who was he kidding, he was always hungry. Hunger stewed in him like a plague. It never went away, just got more manageable with age. At a certain point, the value of going on living in this brave new century outweighed the value of comforts like a full plate. And even when he did gorge himself, which he would shortly, the end result was still a new and deeper hunger pain.

But the strength, eternity... If Belle wasn't getting twice-daily doses of his cum and his cooking, he'd already have fucked her bloody into a sheet. Human bodies weren't made to keep up with Windego appetites. That she was aroused by him and could go on screaming for him, indefinitely, made him consider futures with her as his mate that, even ten months ago, would've ended disastrously.

Ives didn't like to think about Belle as an equal. She wasn't, yet, and she might never be. He had the entirety of the borderlands stretching out before him and a party of javelina poachers within his sight. That was a much pleasanter thought. In the Good Old Days, he might have shot one or two to slow them down before stabbing the rest and chasing them down by the salty-slick scent of their seeping blood.

Now, seasoned stronger by age, he knew he could take them all one-by-one on foot. If they had a cellphone on them, it might even be a sporting game – field-dressing their corpses before the authorities came.

As it turned out, the men did not carry phones. Or, if they did, the remoteness of their hunting locale rendered them obsolete. Ives ate a few choice delicacies raw, the flesh still hot from his prey's failing heartbeats, and broke down the rest into manageable pieces. He could run almost as fast as he could drive, and with an army surplus backpack, a tarp and a few garbage bags he could have them back at his smokehouse within the night.

150 years ago, bloodhounds or tracking scouts might have caught him. Now, when they relied on fingerprints and DNA, the only caution he had to take was not to fuck his food during a feeding. Or to make sure he cleaned up after himself properly, as the case sometimes became. It was a fact he'd learned in Russia, the hard way – a Windego only left a track when moving through snow. In this sandy, hot place, on foot, they'd never find him again.

He carved out the small oysters of flesh that hugged his victim's hips carefully, enjoying a leisurely cigar as he did. With a little butter and garlic, and maybe a vegetable ratatouille, they would make an excellent candle-light dinner for him and his Ms. Gold tomorrow night.

**Kansas – the not too distant past**

So she was running. Travel had always been one of Belle's dreams, but she'd never really planned on Gold's Cadillac breaking down in the middle of an abandoned highway with nothing but corn fields for miles and miles being part of the experience.

At least her little robbery successfully broke the bell-jar seal on Storybrooke. They'd realize, soon enough, that she was gone. She doubted very much that anyone would test the barrier within the week, though. And then what? Would anyone else be able to escape, now that's she'd forced her way through? Emma could call the Boston P.D. But how were they supposed to explain regicide and the fairy tale foundlings and a runaway robber carrying a twisted knife, who didn't even have birth records or social security? Belle's alter-ego in Storybrooke was a nobody, a nothing. A ghost's memory.

No, if Emma wanted to find her she would. Emma could find anything, and if she couldn't then Ruby could. But until that day, Belle was free. And, since it seemed like she was stuck on the highway until morning, she climbed onto the roof of Rumpelstiltskin's plate-steel beast and watched the stars spinning by. It felt good, just to hope and breathe.

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

He'd been stalking her since day-break. He liked to do that, sometimes. Prove that he could hunt her, and that she'd be powerless to stop him if he ever decided to really bite. They'd be seeing one another for dinner tonight, they ate together almost every night, at his invitation. Sometimes she would spend the night with her legs wrapped around his face, and sometimes they would go riding over his extensive property with the promise of one or two quickies before she returned to her own home for the night.

Belle rode like a lady, a real lady – not some settler's wife or tribal peasant. It was in the bearing, the posture. He thought she'd probably go side-saddle, if he bought the rigging. As it was, they did quite well with a couple of old trail saddles and a pair of mares used to neck-reigning. If Ives was honest with himself, that was one of his favorite things about Belle. Of everything that reminded him of his past life, he missed the sense of impending adventure most of all; riding in the countryside with Belle, with her wide eyes and sweet demeanor, recaptured that spirit perfectly. Everything could be new and lovely again.

Except he wasn't planning on taking her out riding today. Belle's reading habits hadn't changed in the weeks that they'd been dating – if dating was even the right word for it. Her predictability was going to get her killed one day, probably by him. She'd headed into the library about 15 minutes prior, and would be alone in history section by the time caught up. No one ever came to browse history at mid-day in the summer time, when all the students were busy whiling away their days in more physical pursuits.

He approached her from behind, silently. Belle yelped when he pressed his lips against her neck, and Ives murmured into her hair, "Shh.. this is a library." She smelled like adrenaline, briefly fear. It set his sense alight.

"Francis..." Belle turned around to face him, breathless but smiling. Whatever she was going to say, he silenced with a long, slow kiss. Ives could lick and nibble on her all day, never tiring of the taste. Her mouth, tainted slightly minty from brushing, was an excellent appetizer for what he had in mind.

When their lips parted, he rubbed himself against her abdomen so she could feel his readiness through his pants, and began stroking the sides of her breasts. "You know, dear, if you're very quiet we might be able to christen one of the reading rooms today."

Belle started to say something like, "We couldn't..." but Ives pinched at her hardening nipple, and her words came out as more of a groan.

They kissed again, and this time she pressed herself back into him when he rubbed himself against her. "Quietly, you said?"

Five minutes later, they'd moved a reading desk in front of one of a small chamber's door and Ives had Belle bent over it, using his tie for a gag. His own mouth was busy lapping up her juices, alternating with his fingers at times so he could sink his teeth into her fantastically pert, fleshy behind. Tasting Belle, all of her, never ceased to amaze him.

In these moments, though he teased her soft skin with his teeth, the possibility that he would rip her apart and consume her flesh seemed an impossibility. Belle tasted like rain, like unending forests, and like something that mirrored his own darkness – the magical, undefined _something_ that made them both different from ordinary human beings.

He could tell from Belle's stifled moaning that she was begging him to take her through the silken neck tie. And she did need the gag – Belle made the kinds of noises that filled his nights and haunted his dreams, but they'd never finish surreptitiously in the library if left to her own devices to remain silent. They'd have dinner at the ranch tonight, human flesh the aphrodisiac of choice; he'd have plenty of opportunities to make love to her and draw out her cries then. This was just snack time.

If Ives lived another 150 years, he'd be happy spending them all with Belle sitting on his face. His little wonder, his little lady, became a regular lion in the bedroom. She wanted to be fucked, properly, and whether it was her own predilection or his influence at play, Ives was more than happy to give her what she liked.

Belle nearly gave them away by shrieking when she felt his hot tip running the length between her legs, prodding her opening and teasing the nerves in her swollen nub. He was playing with her, the fiend. Well, Belle could play too. She sent a hand down to pleasure herself, coating her fingers in her own juices while he rubbed himself over her folds. The part of her brain still thinking clearly loved Ives for his oral fixation, but it was also his weak point. When he finally pushed himself into her, her body was on the cusp, trembling.

Twisting her head around to meet his fierce gaze, Belle succeeded in Getting Ives to pull focus and look her in the eyes. Slowly, ridiculously slowly for the hard pace he'd set, she began to lick her own cum off her small fingers. The man howled, bucked into her frantically, and tore her hand away from her mouth – kissing, licking and sucking her clean himself. His teeth clenched as he came, and she knew her hand would sport a large love-bite for the next few days.

Belle finished moments after he did, milking him dry, and Francis collapsed atop her.

"I thought you said we had to be quiet," she chided.

"Belle... Woman... What are you?"

She smiled the same coy smile as always and kissed him again.

**Fort Spencer – the not too distant past**

Belle's road trip had taken her to strange places, and the tiny ruins of an old fort hardly rated at the top of her list. She was simply enjoying the journey, and not focusing too much on the destination. The brochure said a renegade tribe or possibly a group of guerrillas in the Mexican-American War had devastated the entire garrison at the fort, seemingly in a single night. They rebuilt the place, and it limped along for half a century or so of passing settlers before falling into disrepair.

The local historical society had done a good job. They had a half-rusted bear trap propped open in their museum, along with a dented stew pot and assorted iron sundries their volunteers unearthed with metal detectors.

Rumpelstiltskin would find the whole thing pointless, she was sure. History, to the Dark One, was just a bad taste in his mouth at the end of many endless nights. He'd certainly seen enough of it back in the Frontlands, some 300 years worth. And Belle herself knew what a cruel fate could come at the hands of unending time – 28 years in the Storybrooke asylum was quite enough. Her greatest wish was that they could grow old together and live out their lives in peace; barring that, because of Regina's wretched hand, she simply wanted to travel and find some semblance of rest.

The dream the rest of her friends in Maine clung to – that they would find a way to reverse the curse and return to their enchanted pasts – was not one that Belle entertained.

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

Ives hated visiting Belle in her home. She kept a neat little apartment in the historical part of town, and – save the assortment of oddities proudly displayed in her curio cabinet – nothing at all seemed out of place. It was the general atmosphere that he didn't like.

Tendrils of something malicious lurked on the air, slipped themselves around his feet and poked at his mind viciously. That thing, whatever it was, loved Belle. Absolutely adored her. Yet she seemed ignorant of how jealously it warded her space.

It was the first time he earnestly tried to kill her, that night. Whatever she was, whatever binds she tied, his Belle was _not_ a normal human. When a normal person encountered him, they edged away. When a normal person encountered the overwhelming ferocity that lived in Belle's apartment, they ran away screaming. He'd felt it once before – similar yet separate – standing in line near the ovens in the early 1940s. They hadn't been able to stay and feed on the easy prey for long, whatever inhabited that place had driven them away.

It shocked him, rocked him to his core, to find that he could not overcome the dread and foreboding of that dark thing twisting sinisterly at his neck. Noose, it said. Displease the lady and I'll strangle you. What scared him most was that he thought, just maybe, it could make good.

He became friendlier with the thing in time. It hated him, still. Hated everything but her, as far as he could tell, but it liked that Ives made Belle happy. Liked especially to see her splayed out on her comforter, hands buried in his hair.

The _thing_ was a voyeur, if he had to choose a word to describe it. It watched her all the time, and Ives was not an actor hired for its amusement. He was a lord of flesh and bone, the savage of the winter months made human, born to hunt. This incorporeal _something_ stretched beyond his ability to conquer men, so he did his best to avoid Belle's home entirely.

Fortunately for him, she enjoyed his expansive ranch and the short drive into the country enough that his reluctance never seemed as strange as it otherwise might.

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant past**

Belle loved it here. The climate, the landscape. It was as different from Maine as it was from the Enchanted Forest surrounding the Dark Castle. She might have made it further away – Europe sounded nice – but she was a fugitive of a sorts, a made-up person who fell victim to Regina's ire. Traveling papers would be difficult, at least at first.

She would apply for a social security number first. Having one or not having one, if Emma or Ruby came for her it would make no difference. Then, she thought, maybe some classes at the University. She could work part-time and commute, or just study if she lived carefully – Mr. Gold had left her more than enough for several life times, but she'd insisted on leaving the bulk of it in a trust for Bae. Emma knew to look for him, when she could. If he was anywhere to be found, she wanted him to have his father's legacy – something tangible to remember him by.

The car had seen better days and more miles than Rumpelstiltskin would probably have liked, but she kept it anyway. It tended to break down opportunistically, and she wasn't one to question her own strange but sad fate.

"Control is an illusion, mostly," she whispered, petting the pommel of the twisted knife she kept in her purse at all times. "We like to choose, but sometimes it's not about choice. Sometimes it's about trying again until you get it right."

Talking to it comforted her, in a way. She'd find a place of honor for it eventually – along side her chipped cup and the golden handle of an old cane. Keepsakes, memories. Those were the important things. Not because they kept her rooted in the past, but because the reminded her why she was hopeful for the future.

"I promised him I'd live," Belle murmured to the blade, "so we're going to try."

In the sunshine and fresh air, she felt impossibly light. Halcyon. Right.

**Sonoma County, CA – the not too distant future**

"You've been following me." It wasn't a question, it was a fact.

"Yes sirree," Slauson drawled back. A Windego could not be tracked. Not by a normal human being, but he knew that his fellow monsters, once they had a scent, suffered from no such handicap. He'd grown complacent. Sloppy.

"How long?"

"Long enough to see you got yourself a special little treat waiting for you up stairs. Why haven't you eaten her yet?"

Ives growled, despite himself. "Belle is mine."

"Now that don't sound like the Colonel Ives I know. Share and share alike, eat until there's not another body left in ten miles. That's who you are, that's who I am. So I'll ask you again: why haven't you eaten her yet? She got a magic pussy or something?"

"Where are the others?"

"Holed up in some goddamn cave near Pakistan, pickin' off soldiers from either army and having a grand old time. It's where you and I should be – I came here to bring you back. You've been a wolf in sheep's clothing long enough, it don't sit right with 'em. Not for nearly half a century. Unnatural, ain't it? But before we go, let's grab a snack."

The General didn't wait for a reply, he bull-rushed Ives and sprinted up the stairs.

It happened quickly. He saw his opportunity the second Slauson flung Belle across the room like a rag doll, so he reached out and took it.

Slauson struggled, but Ives knew he had him – whatever that dark _thing_ was, it was on his side tonight. He forced his hands between two of the General's ribs and ripped a hole in the other man's side. The bone and tissue there would have stopped most bullets, but against the strength of his own kind Slauson's body fell away.

Ives tore through the viscera and muscle toward the other man's heart and ripped it, whole and quivering, from his chest. He ate it without thinking, like dog with a steak or a man with an apple. The magic that fueled them would keep Slauson alive for a time, but even that couldn't regrow a man's heart in time to save him.

He was still gurgling on the floor, incoherent, when Ives finished with the heart and twisted off Slauson's head, pulling out a long slimy chunk of his spine. Belle was his. Whether she lived or died by his hand, Ives had no intention of sharing.

The Colonel turned and looked for his mate, finding her in the shambles of her shattered curio with shards of glass shrapneled into her side. Belle was bleeding. Not the passing kind of dense blood from her monthly cycle – real, living blood. It was dripping slowly down her usually flawless skin.

The smell of it did him in. Ives couldn't have resisted the blood lust feeding frenzy if he'd tried. The woman had also seen him devour a dying man's heart – she might have had a choice once, join him or die – but painted red as she was her time to decide was up. He was going to eat her now. Tear his teeth through her tender flesh, lick every drop of her from the polished wood floor, and rub himself off until he was raw from the sheer joy of it all.

Ives didn't know what came first – his charge or her scream – all he knew was the dark-thing bodily restrained him, barely for half a second, but it was enough. Pain. Pain unlike any he'd experienced since nearly dying of tuberculosis in a frozen cave. Belle was looking at him, somewhat shocked and somewhat disappointed, with her crooked knife wedged neatly between his ribs.

"Francis..." she cried. "Oh, Francis. I'm so sorry. What... what are you?"

It felt ironic, her asking him for a change. But he could feel the wound festering, the magic refusing to come to his aid. He answered in spite of himself, sensing his own demise; wanting someone to know before he died. "W-wendigo."

"Wendigo," she gasped. "A ca.. ca...

"Say it."

"Cannibal?"

"Aye." His speech was clouded by blood and sputum bubbling up from inside.

"And... and me, too?"

All he could do was nod. She knew.

"How could you? I wish you'd told me, Ives. I wish you hadn't made it a choice between me or you tonight. I have to live. I promised him I would. Did you know, I was friends with a werewolf once? She devoured armies whole. Just because I wouldn't choose it for myself... just because it's scary... it doesn't mean you don't have the right to be alive. Ruby did. Rum did too."

Belle was rambling now, she knew. But it was all she could do to comfort him. The knife – the magic knife – in this world, could cut through anything. Curses and Wendigo, that's what the magic had been twisted to do. Whatever power of the Dark One remained, it clung to that knife like a shroud. Nothing could heal his wound now. Not her wishes, not his stamina. Ives was going to die, and she thought he knew it too.

"I dont... I'm not saying I would have been fine. I don't know what I would have done if you'd said it aloud. But you should have tried. I knew you were something, and I thought... I thought you knew I was different too. I could feel myself changing, but I didn't know why. I... I think I loved you."

"Wh-what are you?" he choked out between gasps.

Belle was crying now. He'd never imagined that anyone would cry for him. It was almost sublime, and he wished more than anything he'd remembered to taste her tears before he died. Oh well, too late now.

"I'm a story," she replied. It couldn't hut to tell him now. As a favor to a dying man. "A princess, from a fairy tale. I was the Beauty, once. My husband – my Mr. Gold – he was... Well, you would call him the Beast, I guess. That's what Henry always said. But he wasn't, really. He was the Dark One, and he was beastly on the inside as well. This knife... it was Rumpelstiltskin's knife.

And he... died. The Evil Queen killed him. I'm sorry, I know that sounds trite and impossible and silly, but it's true. I grew up in my father's palace and we almost lost everything in the Ogre Wars. Rumpel took me and we fell in love after a while. Then, well it's hard to explain, but then we were apart for a very, very long time. Did you know that I'm almost 63?"

Ives was fading quickly. He didn't understand everything, but _marriage_ and _Dark One_ he knew. "That explains it," he could barely articulate through slowing breath and clenched teeth. "The dark thing... loves you."

"What do you mean?"

He forced out a laugh, sending more blood out of his mouth and over his chin. "Wha-what are you going to do? Are you g-going to eat me now?"

All he could remember was Boyd and a very different ending to a century-old death-embrace. Belle looked down at him, thoughtfully, but didn't reply. With a deft turn of her knife, Ives' world swirled darkly and he closed his eyes for the last time.

_Fin._


End file.
